Appointment
by ASF13957
Summary: Tom Marvolo Riddle visits a psychiatrist.  Things do not go well.  Please R&R.


A short story about Voldemort. That's about it.

Temporal explanation: This takes place a long time before the main events of the Harry Potter series. Tom is seven.

Rating: T for some violence and gore, brief mentions of prescription drugs, and general creepiness, because Tom is a creepy kid.

Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own any terms, characters, locations, etc. specific to Harry Potter.

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"Please come in, Tom." The dark-haired boy shut the door behind him and took a seat on a stiff wooden chair before the desk. He stared unblinkingly into the psychiatrist's eyes. The psychiatrist fidgeted, but only slightly. He was used to working with odd people.

"I hear you hurt another child a few days ago," the psychiatrist said, smiling reassuringly, but with clear connotations of reproach, at the seven-year-old boy before him.

"That's right," Tom replied without emotion. "I cut her face with a knife."

"Yes. So Mrs. Cole said. Can you tell me why you did that, Tom?"

"I can." As the boy said this, there was a glint of something, some hidden thought, in the depths of his dark eyes. He didn't say anything further.

"I would like you to tell me why you hurt that girl, Tom."

An alarming expression appeared on Tom's small, pale features. It was a smile of sorts, but distorted, wild. It was the kind of smile a cat wears before it pounces on its prey.

"Alright. I cut her because I felt like doing it."

"You felt like it? How so?"

Tom considered this. He tried to think of how to explain the feeling, and tried to decide whether he ought to tell this psychiatrist any more in any case.

_It was like that feeling you get when you stand on the edge of a cliff, _he decided. _That tiny part of you that says, "go on, jump. Just give it a try". Except I'd never listen, because that would kill me and I have no desire to die. I never want to die. It's that same part of you that, when you're holding a knife, says "go on. Use me. Hurt someone, just to see what will happen". And that I will listen to, because what does it matter if someone else gets hurt? It doesn't hurt me._

He made up his mind that it would be safe to tell the psychiatrist some of this. He explained about the tiny voice that wanted to see what would happen.

"Don't tell me that you've never felt that," Tom finished, catching a glimpse of the psychiatrist's thoughts. Tom often could tell what people were thinking – he supposed it was because he was so clever. Mrs. Cole had said he had a talent for reading people's faces, but he thought it was more than that. He had a lot of things she called 'talents'.

The psychiatrist considered before replying. "Well, Tom, I have felt like that. I think most people have at some point or another. The difference is, most people don't listen to that little voice."

"I don't see why not."

"They understand that hurting someone is not the right thing to do."

Tom thought about this. He did not understand what made hurting someone 'wrong'. Probably, he decided, the psychiatrist personally disapproved of hurting other people, and with typical adult arrogance presented his opinion as fact.

"I don't believe that," he stated calmly.

The psychiatrist looked unhappy. "If that's the case, Tom, I'm afraid I'll have to tell Mrs. Cole that you need medication. This lack of conscience on your part can't continue when there is a chance you might harm someone else."

Tom did not want medication. He intensely disliked the idea of anything forcibly modifying his personality, which he felt was perfectly adequate in its current state. With this in mind, he altered his expression to one he felt was suitably appealing, and said to the psychiatrist, "Can – can you please wait just a little longer, doctor? Maybe until tomorrow; I'm sure I can change my behavior if you give me a chance."

The psychiatrist was taken aback by the abrupt change in his young patient. The previously cold, unnerving boy was suddenly polite and deferential – it was difficult not to feel sorry for him as he looked up shyly through his long, dark lashes. Against his better judgment, the psychiatrist reluctantly nodded. "Alright, Tom, I'll give you one week, but then I'm telling Mrs. Cole what you've told me."

Although he was unaware of it, the psychiatrist had just agreed to do something which was, for him, extremely out of character. He didn't stop to consider the ethical implications of letting a potentially psychotic boy return to a place where he could, with relative ease, hurt or even kill a large number of other children before anyone could interfere. The thought that he might be doing something unwise had flashed through his head – but it was immediately chased away. Perhaps it was the way the boy looked at him, so harmlessly and innocently, or perhaps it was something about Tom's tone of voice, but the psychiatrist almost didn't pause to consider refusing the patient's request.

They spent the rest of the appointment talking about conscience and its importance. Tom was bored, and didn't really pay attention to the conversation, instead spending the time reflecting on how he would get back at Sally, the girl he'd injured, for telling on him. Eventually the psychiatrist said he could leave, and he wandered slowly back to the orphanage, hands in his pockets, strolling along as if all of the surrounding city belonged to him alone.

When he arrived back at the orphanage, Mrs. Cole asked him how the appointment had gone. He said it had been uneventful, and the psychiatrist said he couldn't make any conclusions until they'd met several more times. The matron brought his dinner to his room, as the rest of the orphans had already eaten, and then left, closing the door behind her.

Tom turned and looked out the window, abstractedly chewing on his baked potato. It was lucky, really, how the psychiatrist had agreed so quickly to his request of a delay. He would have to come up with a way to prevent the man from telling Mrs. Cole to have him take medication, but now he had all night to do so. For the present, he focused instead on braiding a string out of the threads of his bedsheet. Billy Stubbs had been particularly annoying lately, flaunting his new pet rabbit all around the place and making fun of those kids who Mrs. Cole had deemed too young or too irresponsible to have pets. Tom thought that Billy should either learn not to draw attention to what he had that others didn't, as Tom himself did, or pay for his obnoxious behavior. As there was no indication that Billy intended to cease his bragging, it would have to be the latter.

Later on that same night, a short distance from the orphanage, the psychiatrist locked the door to his office behind him and stepped out into the street. Out of nowhere, a car swerved off its course and crashed into the man, plowing him into the cobbles and breaking his skull in several places. Shocked onlookers rushed up to help, but it quickly became apparent that the unfortunate man was already beyond hope of recovery. Within a few minutes, he had died from severe bleeding in his brain.

Back at the orphanage, Tom closed his window and lay down on his bed with a sigh. He'd witnessed the car accident and knew, for some reason, that it had been the psychiatrist who had been hit, and that he had died. Lucky, really, the way things worked out – but then, things often worked out well for Tom Marvolo Riddle. It was almost like magic.

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The end. Hopefully Tom was in character. Reviews are appreciated, naturally. Thanks for reading!


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